As a group of Reapers in red hoodies closed in, Rindo gripped his phone. The 99% finally ticked over. A pin icon flashed on his screen—the .
"Guess there’s no such thing as a free lunch," Rindo sighed, sparks of psych-energy beginning to swirl around his hand. "Fret, get ready. We’re playing for our lives."
"I see it, man! But I also see that giant blue wolf made of hashtags!" Fret squeaked, ducking as a Noise—a jagged manifestation of urban anxiety—clattered over a bus.
The neon lights of Shibuya didn’t glow; they screamed. Rindo stared at his phone, the screen flickering with a distorted version of the Scramble Crossing. He wasn't supposed to be here. One minute he was scrolling through a sketchy forum thread titled and the next, the air had tasted like ozone and static.